MamaBlogga

I don’t think a blog about motherhood would be quite complete without a suitable tribute to fathers. After all, good dads capable, responsible and important.

I probably can’t say enough about fathers, or say enough to thank the father of my children. The man does dishes, reads with Hayden, and can even put the kids to bed.

Thank you, Ryan!

So go ahead, brag on Dad here!

[We are the proud owners of one of those notebooks of Christmas stories to be read each day of December leading up to Christmas—and this year we remembered to pull it out. After tonight's scripture from Isaiah impromptu concert from Messiah, Ryan began tonight's story. And it was on this wise. . . .]

We never had money to spend on each other, but we had caught early in our lives a sort of contusion [the story says contagion, but I think this misreading is where we got off track] from our mother. She loved to give, and her anticipation of the joy that a just-right gift would bring to someone infected the whole household. We were swept up in breathless waiting to see how others would like what we had to give.

Secrecy ruled—open, exaggerated secrecy, as we made and hid our gifts. The only one whose hiding places we discovered [sic] was my grandmother’s. Her gifts seemed to appear by magic on Christmas morning and were always more expensive than they should have been. She was a drug dealer. She had a plot of fifty marijuana plants out back—

[Ryan had to stop for several minutes while I sputtered, choked and, yes, cried with laughter. We then discussed whether or not those were the real printed words.]

That Christmas I was glowing because Mother had been so happy with the parchment lampshade I’d made in the fourth grade. Father had raved over the clay jewelry case I had molded and baked for him. (“Baked?” Grandma said.) Gill and Emma Lou had been pleased with the figures I’d whittled out of clothespins [Mother less so, I'm sure], and Homer had like the scout pin I’d bargained for with my flint. Then Grandma started to pass out her presents.

Mine was heavy and square. It’s a brick of cocaine!

“You’ll have to cut and deal it yourself, dear. I’m getting too old for that kind of thing.”

I’d been in the hospital with an overdose that year and then on crutches after one of Grandma’s rivals broke my leg with a baseball bat. And I’d wondered how it would be to have an erector set to build with. Grandma had a knack at reading boys’ minds and I was sure that’s what it was. But it wasn’t. It was a pair of boots, brown tangy-smelling leather boots. I turned them upside down and out tumbled—

[The End]

Jordan is coaching me (Ryan) through how to do a post here on MamaBlogga, so hopefully I won’t mess anything up too badly. She is currently in a hospital bed holding our new baby girl Rebecca who was born this morning at 4:58 am. Jordan’s contractions started almost 36 hours before, but only got really strong about midnight. About two thirty in the morning Jordan decided that it was time to head to the hospital.

By the time we got all ready and actually got to the hospital it was 3:30. The nurse checked her out and told us she was at an eight and asked if Jordan had wanted an epidural. The moment of truth.

Bit of background: Jordan had a very bad spinal headache caused by a botched epidural during Hayden’s birth. She was basically flat on her back for a whole week afterwards. So when she found out she was pregnant again, she decided she wanted to go natural. She has been practicing self-hypnosis with some good results for several months now. During several of her stronger contractions before we came to the hospital she had doubts that she could go through with it.

Jordan replied to the nurse, “Well, I wasn’t planning on it?” The nurse, sensing Jordan’s hesitancy, told her that she had come this far and Jordan could do it without. So it was—no epidural, au naturel. I believed she could do it, but then again, I’ve never had to go through anything like what she was.

The doctor got there about 4:30 and she started pushing. She had to “learn” how to push all over again since her first birth was with an epidural and she couldn’t feel anything. Only a (what it seemed to me) a short thirty minutes later, Rebecca was born.

A small personal note—I was very proud of Jordan for going through with her desire to go all natural. At times she questioned if she could do it, but she was a champ and did amazing. (With the help of a great nurse.)

All Rebecca’s vitals were strong, which was a relief since Hayden had a few issues after he was born. She weighed in at 5 lbs 13 oz and came in at 18.5 inches long. She almost immediately got to nurse and did so for almost an hour before she was taken away to get some shots and get her first bath. So both mom and baby are doing great other than a bit tired. So hopefully Jordan will be able to get online tomorrow and fill in any gaps that I might have left out.

I came across a Wall Street Journal blog post this week on a study showing fewer mothers “opt out” (a term I haven’t heard used before, but okay) of working after the birth of their children. There were a number of insightful comments pointing out potential flaws in the study.

There was also a good discussion on “how can we justify the institutional and social investments made in these women with specialized professional degrees who don’t use them?” with lots of well-reasoned answers (my answer: being overqualified to raise children and choosing to guide and raise our own children makes us a drain on society?)

But that wasn’t the comment that really got under my skin. It was a response to a mother’s anecdotal observation about mothers in her child’s preschool class:

[from the original comment] “In my daughter’s preschool class of 18 kids – maybe 4 or 5 moms work. I am one of two that work full time. In my immediate circle of friends that I met while on maternity leave – I was 1 out of 7 women to return to work. Four years later and I am the only one working. These women are former lawyers and professionals.”

[this anonymous person's response] There must be a lot of key parties in your neighborhood!

What do these woman talk about with their husbands besides the kiddies? No wonder married men cheat!

I hesitate to say anything because, well, from this comment it’s obvious that this person has absolutely no understanding of anything they mentioned, and not just parenting—everything from human nature to marriage to fidelity to working. But I think there is a pervasive attitude of “What do you do all day?” underlying this comment and society’s perception of stay-at-home mothers.

But let’s take this one point at a time.

“There must be a lot of key parties in your neighborhood!”

A key party is one of those parties held by swinger-types (men put keys in the bowl, women take them out and go home with the owner of the keys). What that has to do with the rest of the argument is beyond me, since apparently everyone in the neighborhood is a SAHM—and I’m pretty sure the premise of a key party isn’t to have an interesting conversation. (And who says that working or staying home has any impact in this area anyway?)

“What do these woman talk about with their husbands besides the kiddies?”

Underlying assumptions here: children are boring; men couldn’t possibly be interested in the daily adventures of their children; any and all jobs are more interesting than raising children and better conversation fodder.

In all the words in my vocabulary, “boring” isn’t one I could apply to my child (soon to be children). Granted, I’m not going to argue that every single day is filled with excitement, interesting activities and new milestones. I do get bored sometimes during the ten to twelve hours I spend with Hayden.

Frankly, however, when I worked full time my job was way more boring. I enjoyed it to an extent, but spending eight hours in front of a computer screen has a bit of a stultifying effect on pretty much anyone. My husband works four ten-hour days a week, and I have a hard time getting more than 10-15 minutes of description about each day out of him (and he’s not the taciturn type).

I’m actually not a SAHM; I work from home (WAHM, I guess) 10 hours a week. But even now, while I enjoy my job, it’s not always interesting—and very rarely is it worth talking about with Ryan, who doesn’t know very much about my field anyway.

Maybe this person has a fascinating job and can regale crowds for hours with tales from each day at work, but the rest of us living in the real world almost always don’t. And even if we had things that we found interesting happen during the day, odds are good that our spouses don’t work in the same field and wouldn’t necessarily find them interesting.

On the other hand, fathers have a bit of a vested interest in the wellbeing of their children. If they can’t stand to hear the highlights of the previous ten hours for at most 30 minutes (and that’s if no one else says anything during dinner), then they should probably be subjected to it for that very reason.

Oh, and since this person asked: my husband loves to hear about my day with Hayden. Perhaps once a week, we’ll talk about my job. I try to get him to talk to me about his job, but he usually is in decompression mode during dinner, and doesn’t want to talk until later (or he’s so eager to talk that he’s already told me everything by the time we sit down).

Aside from Hayden, we talk about news, politics, philosophy, history, psychology, sociology, finances, investments, literature, television, films, etc. You know, the things that most other married couples talk about. Guess what? I might be a mother, but I didn’t go put my brain in the toy box.

But here’s my favorite part of the comment:

No wonder married men cheat!

Yeah. Let’s do an informal survey: if you’re a married man, would you cheat if your wife subjected you to hearing about your children? Otherwise boring dinner conversation?

No? How strange.

Just so we can be fair with the stereotypes, here’s my perception of the “professional” couple without children’s dinner conversation: . . . . Oh wait, they’re both still at work.

As I’ve mentioned before (probably several times), Hayden is a very particular, meticulous little guy. Naturally, he was deeply disturbed to discover that one of the fluorescent bulbs in our kitchen had given up the ghost argon.

Every time we turned on the lights, every time he looked up at them (and this light is visible from the kitchen, living room, family room and dining room, so this was a lot), Hayden informed me anew “Night! Night! B’oken! B’ake it!” (Light! Light! Broken! Break it!, for those who don’t speak Haydenese).

If you’ve ever had a two-year-old, you know—this can get old very quickly. Finally, I told Hayden a week ago that Daddy would fix it soon. This placated him for a while, though he would often remind me “Daddy pits it.”

After four or five days, though, this excuse began to wear thin with Hayden. This week, when I told him Daddy would fix it soon, he looked at me. “Mommy pits it,” he nodded solemnly.

Apparently the kid knows who gets things done .

My sister tagged me, and today is a great day to talk about my “DH.” (See #3 for the reason why.)

1. What is his name?
Ryan.

2. How long have you been married?
Going on four years.

3. How long did you date?
Well, let’s see. . . . from the day we met to the day we married was 325 days. Our first date was 256 days before our wedding. We were engaged (with ring) for 94 days.

And today is the first anniversary of our first kiss! It’s true. Our first kiss was 144 days before our wedding.

4. How old his he?
29. Seriously.

5. Who eats more?
Usually Ryan. Sometimes Hayden, if it’s macaroni and tuna, especially .

6. Who said I love you first?
I did. Grumble. I contend, however, that he felt it first but was afraid to say it. We had only been dating for a few days, so he has an excuse.

7. Who is smarter?
I’m smart enough not to answer that question. He would say me, but I think we have the same college GPA. Good enough?

8. Who does the laundry?
In fits and starts. Lately it’s been me, but at times it’s been mostly him.

9. Who does the dishes?
Ryan washes the dishes, I unload the dishwasher. But we’ve just arrived at this arrangement. Here’s hoping it lasts.

10. Who sleeps on the right side of bed?
We both do. The “right” side of the bed? Sitting at the head of the bed, facing the foot of the bed, I’m on the right. Standing at the foot of the bed, facing the bed, he’s on the right.

11. Who pays the bills?
Autopay, mostly.

12. Who cooks dinner?
Usually me unless I’m feeling lazy or not so good.

13. Who is more stubborn?
Dunno. Maybe me?

14. Who proposed?
Ryan, of course.

16. Who has more siblings?
Ryan—he’s fourth of five, I’m first of four.

17. Who drives when you are together?
Usually Ryan, though I’ll do it if I feel like it, if he’s too tired, or if I know the way and don’t feel like navigating.

18. Who has more friends?
Real people: I would say he does. “Imaginary” Internet people (no, not you, you’re real): probably me.

19. Who wears the pants?
Most days, we both wear pants. But neither of us wore pants for our wedding: